She, Myself & I - Softcover

Gaskell, Whitney

 
9780553383133: She, Myself & I
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0553383132 ISBN 13: 9780553383133
Verlag: Bantam Dell Pub Group, 2005

Inhaltsangabe

Chronicles the zany misadventures of the three very different Cassel sisters--responsible Paige, who has sworn off men after being abandoned by her gay husband; fun-loving Sophie, dealing with the trials of her first pregnancy; and academician Mickey, who is suddenly confronted by a critical fork in the pathway of her life. Original. 40,000 first printing.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Whitney Gaskell grew up in Syracuse, New York. A graduate of Tulane Law School, she worked for several years as a reluctant lawyer before writing her first novel, Pushing 30, followed by True Love (and Other Lies), She, Myself & I, and Testing Kate. She lives in Stuart, Florida, with her husband and son, and is at work on her next novel.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Chapter One


I don’t know why I got that squirmy-stomach feeling when Scott knocked on the door. It was just Scott after all—the one person who couldn’t possibly surprise me any more than he already had. I took a few deep breaths to center myself, and, once I felt sufficiently calm, opened the door.

“Hi, Paige,” he said.

I stared at him. Since we’d divorced, Scott had apparently stumbled onto someone else’s fashion taste. Gone were the plain-front khakis, the slightly too-long floppy brown hair, the preppy tortoiseshell glasses, the quintessential boy-next-door whom most women—like me—don’t notice until they hit their late twenties and start looking around for husband-type material. Now his clothes looked expensively hip, and his hair was cropped short. The tortoiseshell glasses had been replaced with sleek silver metal frames. The once soft body was now lean and muscular. He looked amazing, far better than he ever had when we were together . . . but his new look was also unmistakably gay.

Okay, I was wrong. He was still capable of surprising me.

“Hey. Come on in,” I said, stepping out of his way.

I wasn’t sure what the greeting protocol was supposed to be, and I could tell by the way Scott was clasping his hands together that he didn’t know either. Were we supposed to hug? To exchange cheek kisses—mwah, mwah—like a pair of socialites? Maybe I should have written Miss Manners for the etiquette guidelines on greeting your gay ex-husband.

Dear Gentle Reader, I imagined she would reply. What a trying situation! But now, more than ever, Miss Manners would stress the importance of conducting yourself gracefully. To wit: it is always socially acceptable to clasp hands in a firm and congenial handshake. Do not feel it necessary to engage in gratuitous kissing and grappling.

I stuck my hand out awkwardly, and Scott stared at it just long enough to make me feel like an ass. But just as I was withdrawing my hand—stupid Miss Manners—Scott grabbed it and swung our arms between us.

Is there anything weirder than shaking hands with the man who once promised to love, honor, and cherish you for the rest of his life?

“Thanks for letting me visit our apartment,” Scott joked, pulling his hand back and pocketing it. “I suppose this counts as a supervised visit by the noncustodial parent?”

“You agreed to the settlement,” I reminded him.

“Hey, I was just kidding. And don’t worry, I’ve learned my lesson—never divorce a divorce attorney.”

Scott looked at the apartment, his expression wistful. We’d bought it together four years earlier, just after our wedding. It’s located in a converted downtown warehouse, and is roomy and airy and has a fabulous view of Town Lake out of the floor-to-ceiling windows on the far side of the living room. We’d snapped it up just before the real estate prices exploded in Austin, and there was no way either one of us would be able to afford it now. But Scott’s landscape architecture firm—which he’d started up after we got married, with a loan from me—had been successful. So as part of our divorce, I gave up my interest in his business, and he gave up his claim to our condo. Simple. Neat.

“You redecorated,” he said, taking in the new tufted white armless sofa and matching love seat, the glass-topped coffee table, and the groovy dining table and chairs I’d gotten from Crate & Barrel. I’d really thrown myself into decorating after Scott had moved out, probably—if I were interested in psychoanalyzing myself—in an effort to stamp out any lingering presence of him in the apartment. It was easier to get rid of the memories than learn to live with them.

“Mm-hmm. I did this ages ago. You haven’t been here in a while.” I smiled. “Do you still have that awful sofa?”

“Of course. Admit it—you miss that sofa.”

I’d hated his leather sofa. Hated it. It was an enormous brown monstrosity covered with nail-head trim, and it looked like it belonged in the office of an eccentric old man who spent his days pinning a bug collection into shadow boxes. I’d begged, pleaded, and cajoled with Scott to get rid of it when we’d moved in together, but he’d stubbornly insisted that he couldn’t live without it.

“I have two things in my life that I love more than anything else,” he’d dramatically declared when I’d delicately suggested it was the ugliest couch I’d ever seen and there was no way in hell I could possibly live with it. “You and this couch.”

Apparently his love for the couch was more enduring than whatever it was he’d felt for me.

“So, how’ve you been?” Scott now asked.

“Fine. Great. I made partner at my firm,” I said brightly.

“Really? Wow, that’s fantastic. Good for you, it’s what you always wanted,” Scott said. “And how’s everything else? Seeing anyone?”

“Um. No. I’m not. And I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Paige . . . maybe we should talk. We never really did. It might help both of us if we, you know, sat down and discussed what happened between us.”

“Nothing happened. You decided—sorry, discovered—you were gay, and so we got a divorce. I think it was pretty cut and dried.”

“There’s more to it than that.”

“And I don’t want to talk about it. Really, Scott, I’m fine. I’ve moved on, and my life is going great. I have no complaints.”

Scott looked at me, and I met his gaze straight on, keeping my face smoothed of emotion. After nine years of being a litigator, I’m well practiced at it.

“Okay,” he finally said. “But if you ever want to talk, I’d be happy to. Just say the word.”

“I appreciate that. But I’m fine.”

“Okay. Well. Do you have that stuff for me?”

I gestured toward the cardboard document box sitting by the door. It contained the last odds and ends he had left behind when he moved out. A few CDs, his Blade Runner video, the collection of ugly ties my mother had given him as Christmas presents over the years.

“It’s all there. I can’t believe you’ve gone two years without seeing Blade Runner.”

“I haven’t. My . . . friend has a copy of it.”

Friend.

Okay.

I had the distinct feeling that Scott wanted me to follow up and ask him about his new friend, but I just couldn’t do it. Instead I smiled pleasantly at him and silently willed him to leave.

“Well. Uh. I suppose I should get going,” Scott said.

“It was nice to see you,” I said.

“You, too. Bye, Paige.” Scott smiled, ducking his head the way he always did, and left.

Once the door latched behind him, I turned and stared out the window, trying to decide if the low, dark sky hanging over Town Lake meant it was about to storm. I decided I had time to get a run in before it rained. I went into my bedroom—I’d changed it, too, installing a Murano glass chandelier, a French armchair upholstered in gray-green silk, and the pure white bedding and walls I’d always wanted but...

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Verlag
Bantam Dell Pub Group
Erscheinungsdatum
2005
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0553383132
ISBN 13 
9780553383133
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
384
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